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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626513">When the News Reached Us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Scapes/pseuds/Dream_Scapes'>Dream_Scapes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Blue Lions Students - Freeform, During the Time Skip, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, content warnings for individual chapters are at the top of those chapters, no beta we die like Glenn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:01:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626513</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Scapes/pseuds/Dream_Scapes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of how news of Dimitri's execution affected each of the Blue Lions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the aftermath of the Siege of Garreg Mach, we fled. Each scattered to our own places, our own homes. Some were happier than others to return. Some were safer than others, too. </p>
<p>    It is a startling thing, to have friends as close as family and to find oneself without them when it matters most. We each suffered uniquely, but were not unique in suffering. </p>
<p>    The war was still new, then. We were still so young. Can you forgive us for thinking it would proceed as in our lessons? Can you forgive our naiveté, that we assumed home would be a safe place to rest? </p>
<p>Can we forgive ourselves? We, who should have known better. We, for whom home has always  been as much a shackle as a nest. </p>
<p>Does forgiveness matter? We were not prepared, and nothing can change that. We were not prepared for the news, which was an arrow through our hearts. </p>
<p>When the news reached us, we still thought the Professor only lost. </p>
<p>When the news reached us, we still thought our cause was just.</p>
<p>When the news reached us, we still had our hope.</p>
<p>When the news reached us, we were each alone. And, alone, we broke. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dimitri</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How long after he arrived did they take him? A week? Two? A month? Time had already begun to twist away from him, twining back at inopportune moments, the days always shorter and the minutes always longer than he desired them to be. </p>
<p>    His uncle, the last of his blood relatives, dead. Red stains on white sheets, a black pool on the floor. The girl who was with him that night lay next to him, her eyes staring blankly at nothing, as he had seen so many eyes stare before. It seemed a greater tragedy to him that she was dead, small, fragile thing that she was, a bird caught in a lion’s den, both snared by the same hunter...Why had he come here? How had he come here? He had not done this, he <em>knew</em> he had not, but…</p>
<p>    Time slipped. There were more people in the room now, and they were grabbing him, dragging him away, why? He could still smell the blood in the air, taste it, even, but what was more death, more loss? Not like he loved his uncle, but the girl…</p>
<p>    “Her name?” he asked, or thought he did. “What was her name?” But no one answered. </p>
<p>The halls stretched on forever, endless grey stone and white marble accents, tapestries on the wall, all different pictures, but somehow the same. Where was he? Where was he going? He might’ve asked those questions out loud, or he might not have, it was hard to tell sometimes, and either way, no one answered. </p>
<p>A door clanged shut and time rushed at him, landing a solid hit that bowled him over onto the bench at the back of the cell. Cell. He was in a cell. He was in the dungeons. </p>
<p>He stayed seated on the bench and looked around. The space was tiny, six foot deep by seven foot wide if he had to guess, all bare stone walls and dank shadows, the only light filtering in from a grate in the door. He could break that door if he tried hard enough. Why was he here? For his protection? With Rufus dead, he was the only Blaiddyd left alive, but surely he would be treated with more...Rufus was dead. His uncle was dead. He was the last Blaiddyd. He was the only one left. </p>
<p>Dimitri launched to his feet and started pacing. He was not ready to be king. He could not be king, not yet, surely he could find someone else to be regent for a little while longer, Rodrigue perhaps, he was not ready to lead a nation, he was not ready to go to war, he was not ready to face El--Edel--<em>her</em>. </p>
<p>He punched the wall. If it had been the door, perhaps this story would have gone differently, but he punched the wall, and even Blaiddyd strength is no match for tons of basalt blocks held together by excellent masonry and the very weight of the castle and earth above them. Cradling his bloody, broken hand, he slid down on the bench again and stared at the door. Time stretched and slipped and curled in on itself like a cat in a sunbeam. No one came. </p>
<p>He didn’t know what he expected. He should have known better. He should have been better. He could guess what was coming. How long? How long had there been traitors in the court? How could he have missed them? How could he have trusted the country to Rufus? How could he have let himself be taken? Some prince of Faerghus he was. Perhaps it was better...no. No, not with <em>her </em>still on the throne. He couldn’t die until he had killed her, made her pay for all she had done. For her betrayal. He couldn’t die until he had avenged his family, Glenn, his professor, the villagers at Remire, the poor girl in his uncle’s bed upstairs, everyone, all of them, vengeance, they needed--</p>
<p>A shadow stirred in the corner by the door, his father’s face appearing momentarily, limned in light from the grate. He seemed to nod solemnly, and then, just like that, he was gone. </p>
<p>His father. He had just seen his father. </p>
<p>“Wait!” he scrambled to the corner, to the shadows where he had been, but was no longer. There was no sign of him. “Please,” he begged, turning in a circle, craning his neck, fruitlessly searching. “What do I do?”</p>
<p>The torch light flickered in the hall outside. When he pressed his ear to the door the creaking and groaning of the wood sounded almost like a voice. <em>Think</em>, it whispered. <em>Wait. </em></p>
<p>His father’s ghost had appeared when his thoughts settled on vengeance. Was vengeance the way to bring his spirit peace? Would it bring the others peace as well? If vengeance was what the ghosts wanted, then what did they mean by wanting him to wait? Surely vengeance was better achieved quickly...but, no. Think, fool prince, think! He couldn’t storm his way out of the castle dungeons and through the castle by himself. Even if he gathered a few loyal knights and servants on the way out, he would still most likely die before leaving Fhirdiad, and vengeance, <em>justice</em>, would remain undone. </p>
<p>He had to kill...<em>her</em>. He had to stay alive long enough to get to <em>her</em>. He had to wait for an opportunity to break free. He had to let them come to him.</p>
<p>He settled back onto the bench and tipped his head against the wall. Closing his eyes, he smiled. In the shadows, the ghosts smiled too. Time slunk by them like an alley cat, each step bringing the hour of vengeance closer to hand. </p>
<p>When the door opened, Prince Dimitri of Faerghus, the last Blaiddyd left alive, met Fate smiling, a predator’s gleam in his eyes. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Dedue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dedue had been helping in the palace kitchens, trying to be useful, trying to distract himself from worrying about the war, and his friends, and Dimitri’s...deterioration. It was easier at mealtimes when the kitchens were so busy there was barely time to think, but this was the awkward predawn period before most of the castle was up and about. The other two members of the kitchen staff on duty had slipped off a quarter of an hour or so ago, giving him a blessed reprieve from their constant flirting. The bread was already in the ovens, though, so he didn’t have anything to do but worry. </p><p>    The far door of the kitchens opened and Ava hurried in, clothing disheveled and expression concerned. She wasn’t supposed to show up for another hour and a half at least.</p><p>    “Ava, are you alright?” he asked, straightening from where he was leaning against one of the tables.</p><p>    “Oh, Dedue, thank the Goddess you’re here,” she said, rushing over to him. “You have to go!”</p><p>    He frowned down at her, confused. “Go? Where? Why?”</p><p>    She glared up at him, her expression tinged with desperation. “Rufus is dead. The Prince has been arrested for his murder. You. Have. To. Go.” She punctuated the last part by poking him repeatedly in the ribs. </p><p>    “His Highness has been arrested?” Dedue turned toward the door, what had happened? Surely Dimitri hadn’t...No, no, it wasn’t possible. He shouldn’t doubt his prince. </p><p>    “No! They’ve already taken him to the dungeons, you have to get out now, before they think to come for you, too!” Ava said, moving herself between him and the door. She looked determined to keep him from it and he sighed in displeasure. </p><p>    “Ava, let me go talk to the Knights, there must be some--”</p><p>    “You’re not listening!” Ava fairly shrieked. “Rufus was murdered, Dedue. Murdered! And whoever did it framed the prince. I saw him being escorted by guards. This is a coup! You will not be able to talk sense into anyone, and if you want to live long enough to do anything about it, you can’t stay here!” She inhaled deeply and then exhaled, letting her shoulders drop. “Please, Dedue,” she said looking up at him with sad, tired eyes. “You’re my friend. I don’t want you to die. So, please, go! And don’t stay at your home for too long, they might go looking for you there, too.” </p><p>    Rufus dead. A coup. His Highness, Dimitri, arrested. Guards. Knights. Ava thought of him as a friend? She had always stood up for him to that one particularly nasty cook…</p><p>    “I thank you,” Dedue said, giving her a small bow, head still spinning. “Will you be alright?”</p><p>    She grinned at him, relief shining across her face. “I’ll be fine. Probably. Just get going!”</p><p>    “Very well. Thank you again, Ava,” he said. He collected his coat from the chair it had been resting on and went out the back door of the kitchen, bracing himself against the sudden cold. </p><p>    “Good luck!” he heard behind him, but the door had closed before he could reply. </p><p>    Dedue took the long way back to his residence, keeping his head down, walking as cautiously as he would when approaching a battlefield. He didn’t know what to expect when he finally arrived at his Fhirdiad home, but found it seemingly undisturbed since he’d left for work in the wee hours of the morning. He hung back and observed it for a short time before he was satisfied that no one was waiting to ambush him. Going in the backdoor, he hung up his coat, but left on his boots. </p><p>    Pulling out his armour, he decided against wearing it; he wanted stealth at the moment, and while there were many soldiers in Fhirdiad, he didn’t know of any who wore Garreg Mach Officer’s Academy issued armour. Hurriedly packing it and other necessities into a rucksack gave him uncomfortable flashbacks to the aftermath of the  battle at Garreg Mach not even a year ago, and he had to pause for a moment. How had things gone so wrong? But then again, he’d been asking that question for years and had never yet received an answer. </p><p>    He pulled on his coat and buckled his axe to his back, slinging the rucksack on over top of it. He had a pair of iron knuckles in his pockets, easily accessible to make up for his unease about obstructing the axe. Taking one more look around the house, he grimaced again. Another house he had to leave before it became a home, and likely not the last. Maybe one day, after the war... Well. He was getting ahead of himself. </p><p>    He had been thinking, on the walk and as he packed, of how he could help Dimitri. As he walked through Fhirdiad he could feel that news of the Prince’s arrest was out; the whole atmosphere of the place was tense and apprehensive, uncertain in a way wholly different from the now-normal uncertainty caused by the war. It would help his planning if he knew what was being said about the Prince, but going to the town centre to read the postings was a risk he wasn’t sure he could take…</p><p>    A bell chimed in the distance and Dedue paused, looking around. He’d been aimlessly wandering, uncertain of a destination, trying to make up his mind. But he was in a neighborhood he recognized, a well-to-do one of merchants and artisans and minor government officials. It was where Mercedes lived, and close by was a church, whose bell he’d heard and which surely would be having a morning prayer service soon. And the priest would read the news, and perhaps, just perhaps, Mercedes would be there, and he’d have the chance to speak with her…the chance to say goodbye. </p><p>    Dedue did not see Mercedes at the service, but he did hear the news. The announcement of Rufus’s death and the arrest of Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the charge of treason and another of parricide against His Highness, the sentence: death by beheading, with a sharp sword and a talented executioner. The last was probably as much necessity as concession to Dimitri’s royal status; he would be a hard man to kill. The most important information, though, was that the execution was set to be carried out that day at noon at the Red Court, with only a few high ranking nobles and church officials as witnesses. The trip to the Red Court--Dedue grimaced even thinking about the place, a fortified stronghold complex that had once been a royal residence but had long since become a prison and place of execution--would be the ideal time to try to free Dimitri. Dedue could not muster enough support to successfully storm the castle, nor did he have any hope of breaking Dimitri out of the Red Court once he was inside. However, he might be able to hold up a prisoner transport vehicle long enough to get Dimitri free. Even with the possibility that it was a trap, it was still the best chance he’d have to save his prince (his friend).  </p><p>    There were five hours till noon, and much to be done before then. He’d have loved to have help from any of his friends and comrades from the Blue Lions, but they were scattered far and wide across Fhaergus. He had some idea of people in the city who he could ask to help rescue Dimitri, but having Mercedes with them would go a long way to help assuage his worries... He walked a circuit around the church once more, but there was no sign of her. If he had time to spare he’d go by her house later, but he doubted he’d have time to spare. Sighing, he stopped a moment and prayed to his gods and her goddess for good fortune and a clean victory. </p><p>    Dedue walked out of the church and into the bright morning, determined to save his prince. Determined to save his friend.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Mercedes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Mercedes had been awake for too long. Her shift at the hospital had started more than twenty four hours ago, but she hadn’t bothered to keep counting after that. When she had first started, a month or two ago, she had mostly used her healing magic to help triage patients in critical condition. But the war had left the hospital overrun, full of refugees suffering from malnutrition, exposure, frostbite, and sundry other illnesses, as well as the victims of various infectious disease outbreaks--though thankfully the plague that had swept through the country and killed its queen years earlier had yet to make a reappearance-- and so she had learned, by necessity as well as desire, the art and science of non-magical medicine. She had expanded her magical healing knowledge, too, learning magical methods for long-term treatments and paths to recovery. Now, although she was still best trained as an emergency paramedic, as all field medics must be, she was also capable of doing standard rounds. </p><p>    What this meant, in practice, was that even when she was scheduled to do normal rounds, she was often roped into helping with emergency situations. That, coupled with the hospital’s seemingly perpetual state of being understaffed, meant that stupidly long shifts were not unusual. </p><p>    Mercedes stepped out into the chill of the night and took a deep breath, then sighed, dropping her head to her chest. Her feet ached, her back hurt, and her eyes felt grainy, but she was thankful. Lifting her head, she whispered her relief to the stars. </p><p>    “None of them died,” she said. “None of my patients died today, thank the Goddess. May she keep them and bless them, and let them improve.”  </p><p>    Starting the trek home, Mercedes thought wistfully of the dorms at Garreg Mach. She would give so much to be returning to her school room, a quiet, private place all her own, with her friends only a few doors or a flight of stairs or two away. While quiet and privacy were not too difficult to find in her step-father’s house, her room there had never felt like her own, not like her dorm had. And she missed her friends, both those from her house and those from the others. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around the fact that some of them were now The Enemy…</p><p>    There were more soldiers on the streets than Mercedes remembered there being on previous nights, and while it could have been her usual obliviousness, she didn’t think it was. Something felt <em>wrong</em> in Fhirdiad that night. She decided to cut through the town center rather than take her usual circuitous route of small, residential lanes and avenues, both because it was faster and because there might be a news posting up to explain the change in atmosphere. And, indeed, there was. </p><p>    </p><p>By Order of The Crown</p><p>Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is Hereby Charged with Having Committed </p><p>The Vile Acts and Capital Offences of Treason, Murder, and Parricide.</p><p>For the Death of his Uncle and Regent, Grand Duke Rufus Konstantin Blaiddyd,</p><p>Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is Hereby Condemned to Death via Beheading</p><p>Performed by a Talented Executioner Wielding a Sharp Sword, as Befits his Station.</p><p>This Order Will be Carried Out at Noon in the Red Court</p><p>On the Twenty-Fifth Day of the Harpsting Moon, 1181.</p><p> </p><p>    Mercedes had to take a moment. She had to take several moments. She had to lean against the postings board and stare at nothing for a while, and then reread the bulletin twice to make sure it said what she thought it said.</p><p>    It did.</p><p>    When she reread it a third time and the words ‘treason,’ ‘murder,’ ‘Dimitri,’ and ‘beheading’ remained as they were, awful, cruel, and unchanged, Mercedes fled. </p><p>She did not go home, but rather ran the winding paths of the city to Dedue’s residence. Surely he knew what was going on, surely they--whoever they even were if Rufus Blaiddyd was dead and Dimitri in custody!--weren’t really going to--No. Wait. What was today? She skidded to a halt a few houses down from Dedue’s, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and tried to <em>think</em>. </p><p>
  <em>My shift started at four bells, but there weren’t chimes because it was too early...I was happy because that night I’d gotten a letter Annie had written me about coming to see me because of my birthday this week...Oh, Goddess, have mercy. </em>
</p><p><em>The Twenty-fifth is today</em>, Mercedes thought dully, moving her hands to stare out at the night darkened streets.Somewhere in the city, bells chimed the hour: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. <em>My birthday is in two days...almost one, now. </em></p><p>
  <em>He’s already dead.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>No one answered Dedue’s door when she knocked, but she wasn’t really surprised by that. What did surprise her was finding the backdoor unlocked. She entered tentatively, warily, scared both of finding him and of not finding him. </p><p>“Please Goddess,” she prayed out loud, knowing she should be quiet and not caring, “don’t let him be dead, too.”</p><p>At least it didn’t look like a struggle had taken place here, or that it had been searched. It was very tidy, actually, a small, distant part of Mercedes noticed. Dedue kept a clean house. </p><p>The bedroom, when she got to it, was not tidy. There were clothes strewn across the floor, the bed appeared to have been half-stripped, and there were empty spaces on shelves and tables where things appeared to have once been. Mercedes stepped into the mess and reached down beside the bed, picking up the fallen form of a small, plush, armour-wearing bear. The same small part of her that had noticed Dedue’s cleanliness reminded her that Professor Byleth had been fond of giving such plushies out as gifts, even to those who didn’t particularly care for them. Mercedes had one of her own, though it had a different coloured fur.</p><p>Dedue was obviously gone; there was nothing for her there. She closed and locked the back door behind her as she left. She took the plush. </p><p> </p><p>When she finally got home, everyone else was asleep. She shed her clothes and scrubbed at her face and hands in the washbasin, donned her nightgown and crawled into bed, going through her routine just like everything was normal. Except it wasn’t normal, because she had Dedue’s bear cradled in her arms instead of her own, and it <em>smelled</em> like <em>him</em>, and he was gone, and she didn’t know if he was okay or not, and Dimitri--Dimitri--</p><p>Mercedes cried for a long, long time, but, eventually, sleep won out. </p><p>Sleep always won, in the end. Just like Death. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Annette</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't know if the behavior Annette's Uncle displays here is abusive but I'm putting a note just in case. Be wary.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day dawned bright and red. In retrospect, Annette would view it as an omen, the sky stained with blood, presaging heartbreak, but at the time she merely watched the sun rise from the library window seat in Dominic manor and delighted in the vibrancy of the colour.</p><p>    She ran her fingers idly over the book open in her lap; she’d been having a hard time sleeping ever since the war started, too many things to worry about, all her friends scattered far and wide, and her father...well. She’d thought studying would help take her mind off things, but she couldn’t focus on the book in her hands. Sighing, she marked her page and closed it. She wished she had Mercedes there with her to help, or Lysithea. She’d even be happy to pester Linhardt into consciousness to get him to explain something if it would make her feel less lonely, if…Was he fighting for Edelgard now? Was he soldiering away, a war mage? She couldn’t imagine it. He’d been so close to joining their class. The Professor-- The Pro-- The...well. She had been trying to recruit him, and Annette had even tried persuading him herself a time or two. He was infuriating, but he was smart, and he was her friend, and--</p><p>    “Annette?” </p><p>She started at the sound of her uncle’s voice. She turned to face him, smiling prettily and politely as she was supposed to. He hadn’t sounded mad, at least. </p><p>“Yes, Uncle? Do you need me for something?” Was there a chore she was supposed to have done already? It was only dawn…</p><p>“There’s been a messenger from Fhirdiad,” her uncle said, pursing his lips. “I thought you ought to hear the news. Come along.” </p><p>Annette set aside her book and jumped up, following him quietly to his study. She wiped sweating palms on her skirt and reminded herself that she wasn’t in trouble, even if it felt like she was. </p><p>The messenger was a petite woman, no more than a few years older than Annette herself by the look of her, dressed smartly in the uniform of the Royal Messenger Corps, though it was creased and splashed with mud here and there; she must have ridden through the night, and ridden hard at that. </p><p>“Would you please repeat the dispatch for my niece, Miss Simon?”</p><p>“Yes, Lord Dominic,” the woman said, then turned to face Annette. “The dispatch is as follows: By order of Lady Cornelia Arnim, with support from the Council of Advisors to the Crown, Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd was arrested two days ago on suspicion of murdering his uncle, Grand Duke Rufus Konstantin Blaiddyd. He was tried and found guilty, and yesterday at Noon he was executed for his crimes. Lady Arnim claims the throne, with backing from the Council, and surrenders Faerghus to the Adrestian Empire. All noble houses are required to send a representative of their house to Fhirdiad within a week of receiving this dispatch, to swear fealty to Lady Cornelia and to Her Imperial Majesty, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvleg of Adrestia. Those who do not will be considered Traitors to the Crown; their lands will be seized, their titles stripped, and their lives forfeit. Thus ends the dispatch. Is it understood?” </p><p>Annette stared at the woman before her. Her mouth was moving, and had been for some time, but Annette couldn’t hear her. Hadn’t heard anything since Dimitri was mentioned as the object of a sentence whose verb was “executed”. She thought perhaps her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. Her uncle appeared next to the woman. He was asking a question. She looked at them both; she couldn’t hear either. Her uncle approached her, bent down to her, he was saying something, her name? Was he saying her name? </p><p>“Annette!” her uncle shouted in her face, seizing her roughly by the arms and giving her a sharp shake. She cried out from the sudden pain and the loud noise, tried to jerk free of his grip. </p><p>“I--what? Sorry, I--<em>ow</em>, please, stop, please--”</p><p>“Enough, Annette, please,” he said, releasing her and stepping back. “Do you need any of the dispatch repeated? What’s the last part you remember?”</p><p>“I--” she looked from him to the messenger, who wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I--she said that--she said--” Annette took a heaving gulp of air, trying to keep the tears at bay. Her uncle hated when she cried. “That Dimitri--he--they--executed. He was executed.” </p><p>“Alright. You missed about half of it,” her uncle said. “Perhaps I should have warned you beforehand. Come, sit down. Miss Simon is going to repeat the dispatch from just after the announcement of the Prince’s execution. This time, be sure to listen intently.” </p><p>Annette sat in his desk chair as he indicated, and obediently directed her utmost attention to the messenger. Her uncle stood behind her, leaning on the back of the chair. Annette tried to keep her face as composed as possible, a task which was increasingly difficult as the dispatch went on. </p><p>At the end her uncle asked her a few questions to make sure that she’d heard and understood, and when he was satisfied he dismissed the messenger. </p><p>“I wanted to make sure you were aware of the situation,” he told her, leading her by the arm, grip slightly too tight, to the kitchens, “so that you would understand my decision.”</p><p>His tone was ever so slightly apologetic, which made her look to him, a sudden worry coursing through her. What she saw was a middle aged man, long red hair, graying at the temples, elegantly braided, finely clothed, with soft hands. This was a man who had grown up with money and was used to living well, or at least better than most, who had children, a family, who had no desire to be a hero. She closed her eyes and looked away.</p><p>“You have my condolences for the Prince, I know you were in class together, that you were close. If things had been different, perhaps...ah, well, but things are as they are. I am going to Fhirdiad in the morning, Annette, to swear my allegiance. I’m relieving you of duties and chores for the next week, so that you may mourn. Of course, should you desire to work, you will not be refused.” He handed her a warm cup; dully, she noted the sweet apple smell of her favourite tea. </p><p>“Thank you, Uncle,” she said, because she was supposed to, taking a sip of the tea. She couldn’t taste a thing. </p><p>“There, there, my dear,” he said, gently patting her shoulder. When had she sat down at the kitchen bench? “Things are...tumultuous at the moment, but everything will be fine. You will be okay.” Then he left, and she was alone at the bench, watching the kitchen staff bustle about preparing breakfast for the house. </p><p>If her uncle declared fealty to Edelgard, would Annette have to fight for her? She’d be able to see Linhardt again, that would be nice. Perhaps everyone would just agree, and the war would end. That would be good, right? An end to the war. Peace, finally. </p><p>Would there be peace? Edelgard had had a declaration at some point, she was against Crests, against the Church. Mercy probably wouldn’t fight for her because of that, and she couldn’t fight against Mercy...and Ingrid and Sylvain would never agree to fight for Edelgard, not now that Dimitri--now that--he was--she had--they--</p><p>Oh, Goddess, Dedue. Was Dedue still alive? She hoped so. Goddess, she hoped so. Doubt crept at the back of her mind, though, like worms through dirt, creeping. He would have tried to save Dimitri. </p><p>She hoped he was alive.</p><p>She didn’t think about Felix. She wasn’t sure what he would do and it scared her. She thought about Ashe instead.</p><p>He would want to fight for Faerghus, of course, like the perfect storybook knight he wanted to be. He was a Lord now, wasn’t he? Because Lord Lonato was dead. But Gaspard territory was so close to the Empire, was there fighting there already? Was he okay? She should have written letters, to him, to everyone, all of them, made sure they were okay, maybe she still could? </p><p>But what about his siblings? Ashe had little siblings, he talked about them at school, he loved them so much, she wished she had siblings who loved her like that. Would he still fight, even if it meant they weren’t safe? She wasn’t sure. Ashe was a good person, but he had lost so many people who were dear to him. If he had to relinquish his ideals to keep his remaining family safe, would he? </p><p>Would losing Dimitri be the straw on the camel’s back of his idealism? </p><p>It was late morning. Her tea was cold in front of her and her face was sticky with tears. How long had she been crying? She lifted a hand to wipe her eyes and found that someone had put a blanket around her shoulders. She started crying again. </p><p>Annette missed her friends. She wanted them to be okay. She wanted them--all of them--near her, safe and sound, so she could chatter away and hug all of them and cry with them and remember--remember--</p><p>She missed her friends, the ones who were alive and the ones who were dead, and she wanted all of them to be okay. </p><p>She wanted all of them to be okay. </p><p>She wanted--They weren’t. </p><p>They weren’t okay.</p><p>They weren’t okay they weren’t okay theyweren’t okaytheyweren’tokaythey weren’t okay they weren’t they weren’t they weren’t okay. They weren’t--they--they w--</p><p>Goddess, please. Why?</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Felix</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Felix was avoiding his father. He was always avoiding his father, it seemed. The old man was constantly trying to talk to him, to bring him in on matters of the house, as if Felix cared about the house, as if he cared about <em>him</em>. As if he cared about anything, anymore.</p>
<p>Well, anything but the war. </p>
<p>Sweat dripped off his nose as he came back to starting position. Running through drills wasn’t his favourite method of training, but he’d already broken two practice dummies that day and no one around would give him an interesting enough challenge, except his father, but asking him was out of the question. It would defeat the entire purpose of spending hours on end training which was--aside from the fact that he enjoyed it and it made him stronger--that the old man respected his training and would leave him alone for however long he kept at it. </p>
<p>Felix held the position as he considered switching to reason training instead. He was still uncertain about the Professor’s choice in having him study it, but he had felt, that last month in particular, as if he had actually begun to grasp the core tenets that the Professor had explained to him, especially once Annette had expounded on and simplified them for him. And Annette...She’d be disappointed in him when--if?--when he saw her again, if he had let his progress slip away. Perhaps--</p>
<p>“Felix?” his father called into the nearly empty room. His name echoed around the chamber just like it had when he was younger and his friends would come to visit and they’d spar, chanting each others’ names from the sidelines. </p>
<p>“What?” he snapped, lowering his sword and turning to face the intruder.</p>
<p>“There has been news,” the old man said, his voice heavy with an emotion that Felix was all too familiar with. </p>
<p>He went rigid as the dead, fist clamped too tight around the sword’s hilt. <em>No, no, no</em>, went the chorus inside his head as he waited, breath held, to learn the weight of his grief. </p>
<p>“News from Fhirdiad,” Rodrigue continued, slowly, heavily, <em>infuriatingly</em>.</p>
<p>“Get on with it!” Felix snarled, letting the sword in his hand clatter to the ground. He flexed his newly empty hand, nails biting into his palms then bending his fingers back as far as he could manage, wishing that something would break and bleed and <em>hurt</em>.</p>
<p>“The prince,” Rodrigue said, and Felix clenched both his hands into fists, waited for the finishing blow, “Dima--Dimitri, he--” Rodrigue stumbled over the prince’s name, his surrogate son, took a fortifying breath, forged on. “There’s been a coup,” he said, and Felix loosened for a second, let his hands unclench in shock, uncertainty, blinked as he processed the words his father had just said.</p>
<p>“What?” he asked, mostly to himself, then turned to his father. “A coup? By who? When? Don’t these idiots know there’s a war on?” </p>
<p>“Well,” Rodrigue began but Felix interrupted him.</p>
<p>“And what in the Godess’s name is the boar doing about it? Can he not even handle a few pathetic aristocrats on his own? <em>Useless</em>,” he spat, snatching his sword up from the floor, of a mind now to decimate some more training dummies. He couldn’t believe he’d been worked up over--</p>
<p>“Felix!” Rodrigue shouted, an edge of fury in his voice, but an edge of something else, too, that same, familiar thing.</p>
<p>“What?” Felix snapped back, turning to glare at his father. “The boar prince--”</p>
<p>“There has been a <em>coup</em>,” Rodrigue fairly growled. “The Prince is <em>dead</em>.”</p>
<p>The word ‘dead’ echoed throughout the room in the ensuing silence, father and son both frozen by the harshness of the statement, of its truth. Felix remembered the sparring matches again, how sometimes Glenn or Sylvain, and only very rarely Ingrid, Dimitri, or himself, would pantomime a dramatic death when they lost, to enthusiastic chants of that selfsame word: “Dead! Dead! Dead!”</p>
<p>“No,” he said into the stillness after even the echo had faded away. “No, he--he wouldn’t let them kill him, he’s too damned stubborn, he’d claw his way out of hell itself, he’s not--he can’t be--” Felix fell to his knees. </p>
<p>“Felix,” Rodrigue said gently, sorrowfully, as he approached. He knelt next to his youngest son, his only remaining son, raised a hand as if to offer comfort, hesitated, unsure. </p>
<p>“Don’t,” Felix bit out, voice harsh and grating, just on the edge of tears. He had not cried in so long, not since--not since Glenn. He would not do so now, not for <em>him</em>, not for the boar prince, not for D--not for--not--</p>
<p>“Felix,” Rodrigue said again, but Felix didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t stand to be there with him for one more second. </p>
<p>“Just, shut up,” he hissed, snatching his sword up from the floor and stalking out of the chamber. </p>
<p>He didn’t remember the walk from there to his room, just found himself standing outside his own door, sword in one hand and the other clenched at his side, unable to will himself to open it. There were so many memories here, too many, too many good things gone bad, too much bitterness, too much death. Grief was a monster he was familiar with, though every time it visited it wore a different face, had a different name, a different weight. </p>
<p>He had thought he didn’t care anymore. He had thought he’d sealed away at least that part of his past, of his heart, hardened himself to it, to <em>him</em>, and yet…</p>
<p>Grief for Glenn had burned him, fired him, hardened him like clay, smothered him in smoke. He had come out from it--in as much as he could come out from it--sharper, harder, at once more durable and more fragile. Grief for...for Dimtiri felt more like being smashed upon the floor. He had been teetering at the edge for so long, hoping to avoid the fall, even as it grew more and more inevitable, and now...now he had fallen. Now he lay in pieces scattered across the floor, so much rubbish, so many sharp and dangerous parts, he had thought he did not care but that had been a lie, when had he gotten so good at lying to himself, why did it still hurt so much when it was so obviously going to happen eventually, why did it still hurt, why, why, why?</p>
<p>Grief was a monster and Felix was good at fighting monsters. </p>
<p>The lair of the monster was through his bedroom door, where everything was a reminder and a token either of absence or presence, of hatred and love.</p>
<p>Felix Hugo Fraldarius wasn’t afraid of monsters.</p>
<p>He opened the door. </p>
<p>Inside it looked the same as it had when he left. There was his rack of weapons, each a gift, each a memory. The first sword he’d ever used, Glenn’s old sword, a sword he’d been gifted by the Professor, one that had been a going away present from his father, and a broken sword, wrapped in oilcloth and hidden behind the rack, something he’d considered getting rid of many times but never had. He’d told himself it was because he couldn’t bear to look at the thing or touch it because of its connection to--to Dimitri. But now, looking at the rack, looking around his room, he could remember how they’d played together here, himself and Dima and Ingrid and Sylvain and Glenn sometimes, too. He could see all their favourite spots, remembered the things hidden in nooks and crannies. </p>
<p>He crossed the room, dropped the sword he was holding and took out the broken sword, blew dust off the oilcloth then knelt on the floor to unwrap it. </p>
<p>It was a small blade, meant for a child, because they’d been children when it was broken. Children, and yet they wouldn’t remain so for much longer. </p>
<p>Felix took a breath, choked on a sob, looked up and away and accidentally caught his own eye in a mirror. </p>
<p>He looked the same, haggard and pained and grief stricken though he was. His hair had come partly out of its knot and hung around his face and if it weren’t for his eyes, which were a hard and empty amber, he’d look just like his brother.</p>
<p>Just like Glenn. </p>
<p>“Goddess damn it!” he cried, turning away and ripping the rest of his hair out of its knot. It hung in tangled locks, but he didn’t care, he seized a clump of it and the broken sword before him and started sawing it off in chunks, using the jagged edge of the break since the blade was too dull from neglect to be much use. </p>
<p>“Goddess damn it,” he said again, softer, his newly shorn hair brushing his jaw, his ears, falling in front of his eyes. </p>
<p>This time, when the sob swelled in his throat, he let it come. The tears were as much relief as they were agony. </p>
<p>Grief, Felix knew, was a monster that couldn’t be killed, only survived. So, as he wept, he made himself a vow:</p>
<p>He would survive. </p>
<p>He would survive.</p>
<p>He would survive. </p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Sylvain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warning: Self harm, implied abuse</p>
<p>Tagging self harm because it can be read as intentional, but it's kind of ambiguous. Use your best judgement.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Sylvain came home late in the evening and found his father waiting up for him. This was a bad sign, because Margrave Gautier was not the sort of man who would inconvenience himself in the name of parenting. He was also not the sort of man who would view Sylvain’s typical nightly exploits as actions deserving of rebuke. He had no reason to be waiting up. </p>
<p>    “Sylvain,” the Margrave said, voice low and hard. “Come sit with me.”</p>
<p>    Sylvain went, choosing the chair by the fire rather than the other side of the sofa. He watched his father warily.</p>
<p>    “There has been news,” the Margrave said, looking at him assessingly, “from Fhirdiad.”</p>
<p>    Sylvain nodded, and wondered what the point was. </p>
<p>    “Rufus has been killed,” the Margrave said bluntly. “The Council blamed the prince for his death and executed him, about a week ago. That doctor, Cornelia, has assumed the crown and pledged her loyalty to the Adrestrian Emperor. She has not inconsiderable backing from the Western counties.” He sat back on the sofa and looked at his son expectantly.</p>
<p>    “Oh,” Sylvain said, hands clenched into fists in his lap.</p>
<p>    “Cornelia has demanded shows of allegiance and pledges of loyalty to herself and the Emperor from each noble house within a week of them receiving the news. We won’t be sending any representative, of course, but we do need to send messages. Prepare to travel in the morning, for you’ll be visiting  Fraldarius, Galatea, and Charon as a representative of this House to see where they stand and to make plans for war. Written instructions for you and letters for you to give them, as well as rations and money for travel will be ready for when you leave. Just take care of your packing tonight.” </p>
<p>The Margrave gave a firm nod, which Sylvain returned dazedly, and got up. He hesitated at the door to the sitting room and looked back to Sylvain, who was still watching him blankly. </p>
<p>“Bring the Lance with you,” was all he said before disappearing into the darkness of the hall. </p>
<p>Sylvain slumped in his chair and unclenched his fists, shaking them out. He examined his palms: they were bleeding from where his nails had dug into his flesh. They probably wouldn’t scar, but even if they did, it wasn’t like anyone would be able to tell, given the profusion of similar scars already marring the skin of his palms. </p>
<p>Well, anyone but him. </p>
<p>He looked to his left at the fire, then looked away. He couldn’t stay here. Getting up, he walked back out the door and into the cold night air. He stood in it for a time, let the wind chill him through, till practically his entire skeleton was chattering, and, when he could take it no more, he stumbled himself into a run. </p>
<p>The road to the Gautier manor was long and fairly straight, and he ran all the way to its end, where it intersected with the trade road. Following the road left took you north, all the way up to Sreng if you wanted, while turning right would take you to the village, where he’d been earlier that night, and then further, to Fraldarius and Galatea, Fhirdiad, if you wanted, or all the way to Garreg Mach, and from there you could go anywhere, be anything...but, no. That was a lie, it had always been a lie, there was no leaving. There was nothing but this land he was born onto, this title that weighed him down, this family that had broken him but refused to let him go, this blood flowing in his veins that carried a crest he hated... </p>
<p>Sylvain propped himself against the gatepost and stared up at the sky, let the bright light of the full moon wash everything to silver and grey.</p>
<p>At the Academy, Sylvain had let himself believe that things could get better. He was free there, and he had his friends, and for the first time in forever things were <em>good</em>. He and his friends, they were going to change the world, be better than their parents, than their names or blood, their crests or stations. They’d be kind and good and just and honourable, free and bright, they’d fix all the things that hurt them, they’d be the heroes their younger selves never got. They could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything, and they were going to go home and be themselves and make the world better. Even if he’d never fully believed it of himself, he’d believed it of the others. And the Professor had believed in them, so of course they would succeed. She would always be there for them to lean on, to help out, to make their dream a reality. </p>
<p>But it wasn’t true. The Professor was gone, he and his friends were at war, and Dimitri...Dimitri was dead. Maybe soon he and the others would join him. </p>
<p>The dream had always been a lie.</p>
<p>Sylvain squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could remember how to cry. It had been so long, he wasn’t sure when he’d stopped, or why. Maybe it had been when he was small, because Miklan always hated it so, and his father had, too, one of the rare things they’d had in common. Felix used to cry all the time, and he’d been jealous, sometimes, of how easy it was for him. That changed after Glenn, of course. So many things had. It was a tragedy in and of itself, how grief warped his friends. He supposed it had warped him, too. But then, Sylvain had been grieving for far longer than any of the others. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been grieving, himself and his brother and the love that could have been but wasn’t. He wished he could cry now, let all the ugliness out of his chest and into air, paint the world with his sobs. He opened his eyes and looked at the moon again, stared at it unblinking till the cold and the wind and the light made them water. </p>
<p>It wasn’t the same. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He shivered on the long walk back to the manor, and he shivered up the stairs, and he shivered when he passed the door that had been Miklan’s when they were younger. He shivered still, standing in the middle of his room, clothes strewn about haphazardly and one bag packed, the other still half empty. He held in his hands a small plush lion that had been Dimitri’s when they were younger, which he’d gifted to Sylvain to make up for accidentally giving him a black eye with a sword during a sparring match, back when they’d just been getting used to the enhanced abilities granted by their Crests. He’d forgotten about it till just now, seeing it on the shelf when he’d gone to grab the healing staff the professor had given him when he began his training in Reason and Faith. </p>
<p>“She let me pick, you know,” he told the lion, which he thought might have been named Loog. “She had a reason staff and a healing staff, and since I was learning both I could have had either. But she let me pick.” He stared at the staff, still leaning against the shelf, then looked back to Loog. He stroked the lion’s soft cheek and brushed back its mane, then hugged it to him and wished it were Dimitri, or Ingrid, or Felix, or even the Professor or one of his friends from school. “I just wanted,” he whispered into the lion’s mane, “I just wanted to make sure my friends were safe.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the morning Sylvain waved a cheery goodbye to his mother and saluted his father as he rode off down the drive. He stopped at the gate and double checked his saddlebags to make sure he had his precious cargo. There were the letters, sealed and wrapped in oilcloth, and there, too, was a small plush lion. He stroked one finger down its cheek before closing the saddlebags up again and turning right, toward Felix, and Ingrid, and the war. Grief weighed heavily on him, but he was used to the weight. Maybe someday it would break him, but for now, for now there was work to do. </p>
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